


I'll See You Tomorrow

by Barricades_And_Flowers (fyeahblackturtlenecks)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, trigger warning--suicide attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-18
Updated: 2013-07-18
Packaged: 2017-12-20 15:38:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/888940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fyeahblackturtlenecks/pseuds/Barricades_And_Flowers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire doesn't know how much he's had, but it's more than usual and he's not sure he can keep his thoughts at bay this time.</p><p>TRIGGER WARNING--Attempted Suicide (Sort of. It's still triggering.)</p><p>This is a songfic to  Bullet by Hollywood Undead. I don't own the song.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll See You Tomorrow

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going to say it again--TRIGGER WARNING for almost attempted suicide.

_So if I survive, then I'll see you tomorrow..._

_I'll see you tomorrow..._

Grantaire isn't sure how much he's had. The forest of empty bottles on the coffee table shifts in three different directions at once as he tries to tally them up. He knows it's a lot, more than usual because his legs seem to crumble underneath him as he attempts to pull himself to a standing position. He half-crawls, half-drags himself to the bathroom and pulls himself off the floor with shaky arms, trying to focus on the blur of his reflection in the mirror. The effort makes his stomach turn and he lets his chin drop to his chest, eyes coming to rest on his hands, which grip the edge of the sink with an unsteady strength.

 

He raises a hand to his face, squinting at his curled fingers. There is paint on, under and around his nails, and callouses where a brush rests for hours on end. A dark grey charcoal streak sprawls across the side, snaking its way onto his palm. His hand is shaking, and he runs it through his wild curls before planting it back onto the sink. Grantaire raises his gaze to the mirror again, the image becoming slightly clearer through his foggy blue eyes. His mind is sluggish, but it screams. He makes eye contact with two glaring grey orbs and tries look more murderous than the man in front of him.

He hates what he sees, and the tidal wave of thought begins to form in the back of his mind. His fingers, already clenched on the ceramic edge of the sink, tighten even more and his eyes squeeze shut in an attempt to hold back tears that slip past anyways. 

He thinks first of his father, the man who took a belt to his back with increasing frequency as he grew up until he'd left the house through the window one night with a bag of only the essentials and never looked back. He thinks of the sister he'd left and how he can't call home to talk to her for fear of his parents answering the phone. He thinks of how, as the belt opened gashes in his skin and he was told he was worthless, his mother watched silently in the doorway.

With a will of its own, his hand reaches for the door of the medicine cabinet and opens it, the hinge creaking quietly. The salty droplets chase each other down his cheeks with a new determination as his fingers wrap around a small orange bottle.

He thinks of all the nights he'd spent alone in bars instead of studying for his college courses, trying to flood his mind with alcohol until he was out cold and had to be carried back to his tiny apartment. He thinks of how he failed out of all of those courses. One can't hand in assignments if they're too hung over to complete them in the first place. He remembers how he'd forced himself not to care that a career as an artist was not a likely possibility. He remembers the nights that he couldn't afford the bar and he'd resorted to dragging a knife across his forearm in search of the same buzz that he got from drink. 

The sleeve of his deep green sweatshirt slips to his elbow as he curls to the floor, cradling the pills to his chest. The scars, faded to a faint silverish color against pale skin, beg to be opened again and he stands again, using the wall as support on his way to the kitchen, the little orange bottle still clenched in his hand. His shoulders shake freely with silent sobs. 

Grantaire's mind drifts again, this time to the night he'd had a drinking contest with Bahorel and had been inadvertedly accepted into the small group that called itself 'Les Amis de l' ABC.' He wonders why they've been putting up with him these past years, when all he did was drink and argue with the Apollo that led the group into battle during every protest they've organized.

His mind is suddenly flooded with images of the golden god that is Enjolras, and his chest tightens along with the hand now holding the knife. With an automated motion that came from years of practice, he leans against the kitchen counter and drags the knife across his forearm, following the line of an old scar. The pain is slightly sobering and his eyes widen at the blood seeping  from the cut. Enjolras is powerful, Enjolras is an authority in himself, and if he saw the state Grantaire was currently in, Grantaire thought, he would probably give him the lecture of a lifetime. Grantaire loves the tiny scraps of attention, the heated debates he gets into with him during the weekly meetings. He loves to contradict, because he gets a response. Grantaire refuses to believe in anything or anyone, and yet this Adonis has made his way so firmly into his mind and refuses to leave. Grantaire treasures every glare that he recieves, every scoffing rebuttal, and every time Enjolras says that "You believe in nothing!" he will respond with a wry, "I believe in you." Because instead of the causes that Enjolras so fiercely supports, Grantaire supports the fiery god himself, the driving force behind the speeches. 

He falls in a heap to the floor, the knife clattering on cheap tile and splashing tiny droplets of crimson with the sound. He clamps a hand around the one cut he has managed to open again, pulling down his sleeve and holding it tightly over the area. Twisting the bottle of pills open with his teeth, he suddenly finds that the strength with which he held the tiny container is suddenly gone and he drops it, the small white ovals scattering everywhere. His jaws, which he hadn't realized he was clenching,  finally relax and with the parting of his lips come the gasping sobs he's been holding back, the last sliver of control slipping away from him. The knife is suddenly repulsive and he spastically kicks it across the room, curling into himself and burying his face in his his arms. 

He can't do it, not with the thought of the disapproval he's sure it will get from his own personal Apollo. The god will surely try to lecture his corpse, cold in its grave, on how it's weak to give up like that. And he can't bear to be a source of more disappointment than he already is, not to his precious Enjolras, the only thing worth surviving for, even if Enjolras doesn't feel the same. 

 

The next day he wakes with a dull ache in his arm and a bloody sweatshirt, not to mention the throbbing in his head that seems to overpower everything. He forces himself up, looking around at the mess he's made and wincing at the hazy memories that come back. With a sigh and a groan, he gets the broom and puts the thoughts away as he sometimes is able to do in favor of cleaning away the traces of what goes on in his head when he's so, so alone.


End file.
